


the best of you

by nilchance



Series: ain't this the life [21]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Come Inflation, Consentacles, Double Penetration, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Underfell Sans (Undertale), eventual spicykustard, kustard - Freeform, offscreen fellcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-22 10:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17661044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: Sans makes good on that blank check.





	1. Chapter 1

The text comes when Sans is already at the bus stop, a few tinny strains of Call Me Maybe that earns him some serious side-eye from the human teenager smoking on the bench beside him. Edge’s text reads: _I won’t be able to join you for lunch. My apologies._

Welp. Avoidance is Sans’s favorite bad habit. On the other hand, no hilarity of trying to explain the purpose (or lack thereof) of tourist tchotchkes while enjoying Edge’s witheringly dry sense of humor. Two days gone and he missed Edge. He’s in fucking deep.

He texts, _np. everything ok?_

_Fine. The PR team demanded an immediate meeting with the king about Frisk’s decision to flirt with the pope._

Of course. He’s sorry he missed that. He’s not 100% sure what a pope is (some kind of human religious thing?) but he bets the expression on the guy’s face was hilarious. No wonder Edge, who deals with bureaucracy and humans trying to tell Frisk how to behave about as well as you’d expect, sounds so fucking terse. Unfortunately, Undyne is worse, so he’s stuck with the PR meetings, looming over Frisk’s shoulder like seven feet of glowering murder.

 _tough luck,_ Sans texts. _try not to make anybody cry this time?_

 _No promises,_ is Edge’s reply.

Sans grins at his phone for a moment, then slides it back into his pocket. Looks like his afternoon so just opened up. Time to go back to Grillby’s and earn up another--

The phone rings. Sans doesn’t even have to look at it to know who’s calling. He picks up. “Let me guess. You heard from a little birdie that I have some free time on my hands.”

“Dunno any birdies,” Red says. “Might know a couple of people in the embassy, though.”

Sounds like Red. He probably knows more about what’s going on there than Asgore does. Sans wouldn’t put it past him to put a bug or two in strategic locations for funsies. Like, say, Edge’s office. 

“You and every other monster,” Sans says. “Did you want something?”

“Come over and I’ll show you exactly what I want,” Red says.

Sans knows that tone. Pleasant tension runs through him. He leans back against the bench and pokes the badger with a stick. “Hmm. I dunno. Is it really worth the bus trip?”

“Called you a cab,” Red says. “You’re at the bus stop by Grillby’s, right?”

Sans narrows his eyes, suddenly feeling like the kept boy of an eccentric mobster and not liking it much. He prefers his roleplay a little more straightforward. “I moved to Canada. The bus is fine.”

“The bus is slow and I’m bored.”

“Oh no. However will you cope. Try jerking off.” 

The teenager snorts. Oops. Fuck, he’s a terrible adult. Sans gives them a ‘what can you do’ shrug and they nod sympathetically.

“Nah,” Red says. “I got two hot dudes to do it for me. You oughta try it sometime.”

Yeah, because Sans really needed more ammunition for that fantasy. He rubs his brow. “No thanks. I can barely take one of you.”

“Eh, lube and a little fingerbanging first and you’d do just fine,” Red says. 

Sans can’t even be annoyed. He walked into that one, vivid mental picture and all. Thankfully, he thinks he sees the cab a couple blocks down. Annoying as Red is, he’s not proud enough to turn a cab down so he can sit on a bus for forty-five minutes. This no shortcuts thing is killing him one boring bus ride at a time.

“I’m hanging up,” Sans says.

“Aw, no, baby, I can explain. See, lube is this thing where--”

Sans closes his phone with unnecessary force and drops it back into his pocket. 

The teenager takes another drag of their cigarette and says, “Boyfriends, right? They’re the worst.”

Sans automatically opens his mouth to say something about no, hell no, Red’s not his fucking _boyfriend_ , then considers having that potential conversation about the differences between boyfriends and fuckbuddies who you have unfortunately complicated feelings about with a random human teenager at a bus stop in the two minutes before his cab shows up. He decides to spare them both the confusion. “Pretty much.”

The teenager nods sagely. They sit in the silence of mutual philosophical understanding until Sans’s cab comes. 

It’s a short trip to Red’s place in the cab, less than ten minutes before Sans is knocking at their door. And knocking. And knocking some more. There’s no answer. 

Grudgingly, Sans pulls the key out of his inventory. Handling it like it might explode in his hand, he fits it in the lock. There’s a brief tingle of magic, a shallow version of the same protective _do not touch_ intent as the collars passing over him and judging him safe. An extra layer of security. Sans wouldn’t want to be the dumb bastard that tries to pick this lock.

Once he’s inside, he calls, “I’m getting some mixed messages, buddy.”

Red pokes his head out from the hallway leading to the bedroom. “Oh hey, I didn’t hear you banging on the door like a goddamn siege engine. Good thing the boss gave you a key, huh?”

It’s easier to ignore that, so Sans does. He sheds his jacket, tossing it in the general direction of the couch and missing. It lands in a crumpled heap. “This isn’t exactly convincing me to let you in my pants.”

“You don’t need convincing,” Red says, which is fair. Sans is here, after all. He jerks his chin towards the bedroom. “C’mon. If we try to fuck on the couch, there’ll be a furball up in our business. That little bastard really kills the mood.”

Oh, the things that poor cat has probably seen. Sans shrugs his agreement and follows Red to his bedroom, letting Red close the door behind them. The first thing he notices is that there’s a black, fuzzy blanket thrown on top of the usually bare mattress. Such a small detail, but it sets off an internal alarm. _Warning, bullshit afoot._

When Sans turns around, it’s to find Red right behind him, grinning in a way that immediately makes Sans go still inside like he doesn’t want to catch the attention of a predator. All friendly concern, Red asks, “How you doing? Didja get some rest when you were out of town?”

Sans shrugs. “It was kinda tiring juggling chainsaws and fucking every human I came across, but I did all right.”

Red’s grin gets even sharper. So he saw that picture Papyrus posted of their trip on social media after they were safely back in town, the better to avoid two overprotective edgy bastards freaking out about unfamiliar humans. “Aw, good, you’re feeling sassy.”

“Like a small, yappy lap dog,” Sans says. 

“Nah. You purr too loud.” Red continues to stand just out of reach, hands in his pockets. “So I got this blank check burning a hole in my pocket.”

Welp. There’s the confirmation, not that Sans really needed it with the charge in the air and that look in Red’s eyes. He refuses to react, just grins as his treacherous soul beats faster. “Really? What kind of idiot gave you that?”

“Oh, some pretty little thing who’s a total pain in my ass,” Red says.

“You’re two inches taller than me, Napoleon.”

Red waggles his brows. “Sometimes two inches makes all the difference, baby.”

Sans snorts, some of the tension defusing. It’s just Red. Yeah, okay, it’s Red with a blank check and a lot of bad ideas, but he’s careful about stuff like this.

“You good for it?” Red asks.

“If you are,” Sans says. “I mean, you’ve been talking a big game, but we all know that means you’re overcompensating.”

“Yeah, keep talking shit.” Red finally steps into Sans’s space, close enough to kiss but still with his hands in his pockets, and Sans has the sudden immature urge to lick his chin or something to get a rise out of him. “Don’t suppose you got a safeword.”

“Nope. That’s a little too serious business for me.” But here he is, a collar in his pocket, giving a kinky bastard like Red carte blanche. He’s learning all kinds of new things about himself these days.

“Not today, it ain’t. Stop’ll work.” Red’s grin widens. “Or snap your fingers if you’ve got your mouth full.”

Sans feels his brows raise. Reflexive spit wells up in his mouth at the memory of how Red tastes. Fuck, he’s easy. “All right.”

“Use it if you need to,” Red says. “Don’t just check out and white-knuckle through it. That ain’t fun for anybody.”

That’s fair; Sans wouldn’t want somebody he was fucking to be grinning and bearing it either. He’s probably not going to _listen_ but he gets why Red is saying it. “Gotcha. You want ‘em to be consentacles.”

“I was gonna make that joke,” Red says, offended.

“Shoulda made it faster, then. Anything else? I’m sensing a theme here.” Sans shifts forward a little to step on Red’s toes. His boots are steel-toed but hey, whatever. “You want me to call you sir? Master? Daddy? I mean, I won’t say it but it’ll be something to point and laugh at you for later.”

“Huh.” Red considers him like he just said something very interesting. “Sweet of you to offer, but no. Maybe next time."

“So you missed the part about one time only.”

“Who knows? If I show you a good enough time, you might change your mind.” Red reclaims his foot and steps back, the opposite of what Sans wants. "Take off your clothes."

That was definitely not a request. They're only playing a game, but it immediately puts Sans’s hackles up. It'd be pretty stupid to balk because Red told him to do something reasonable in the wrong tone of voice, but Red also likes it when he fights so--

An amused light in his eyes, Red asks, "You want me to make you?"

To Sans's horror, some part of him does. But his clothes probably wouldn't survive the experience and he likes this shirt. He waits another few seconds just so Red doesn't get the idea that he’s doing it because Red told him to, then starts to undress. Red makes no move to do the same, only stands there shamelessly watching until Sans is barebones.

Sans makes jazz hands. "What now?"

"Lay down on your back," Red says.

"Better keep those instructions specific," Sans says as he follows Red’s… request. He’s just gonna pretend for both their sakes. If it was a request, he doesn’t feel obligated to be a dick about it. The blanket Red threw on top of the mattress is deliciously soft against his naked bones, although it crinkles a little. Waterproof. Apparently Red thinks the bed is gonna be a splash zone. "I've never gotten horizontal before. I might get confused."

When he's on his back, Red efficiently strips and stretches out on the bed beside him. One of his arms drapes over Sans's ribs, bodily dragging him in closer. Sans makes a disgruntled noise out of habit and waits for whatever's coming.

Nothing happens.

Nothing continues to happen.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Sans demands.

"What?" Red asks, all innocence. "I'm cashing my check. All the cuddling I want without you bitching about it. Why, were you expecting something else?"

Sans turns his head to glare at him. "Seriously?"

"I mean, you're still fragile and all. Maybe a couple more weeks of healing and we can have some gentle, tender tentacle looooovemaking--"

Groaning, Sans closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the mattress. The sad thing is that he wouldn't put it past Red to spend the blank check just to cockblock him. "You're such an asshole."

"I dunno,” Red says thoughtfully. His fingers drift over Sans’s ribs, feeling him up. “Maybe I want you to ask for it."

" _Such_ an asshole," Sans repeats. Clearly Red's not going to give up this hilarious joke until he says it. "I want you to fuck me.”

Mercilessly, Red says, "I fuck you all the time. Fucking covers a lot of territory. You’re gonna have to be more specific than that."

"Live your hentai dreams. Make like that one Ed Wood movie." Red doesn't move. Sans exhales. "Please. You fucking dick."

"Well, if you're using the magic word," Red says. 

Then Red’s on top of him, sitting on his thighs, a heavy weight pinning him to the mattress. One of his hands presses Sans’s shoulder flat, the one Red marked. The other slides between Sans’s legs, taking hold of his pubic symphysis. It’s a lot to happen in less than three seconds.

“We were kinda in the middle of something when you decided to shortcut us downstairs and shove me at the boss,” Red says, a mean glitter in his eyes. “Which was fucking rude, by the way.”

“Oh no, not rudeness,” Sans says. “We’re usually so polite.”

“It’s the principle of the thing.” Red rubs the pubic symphysis between his thumb and forefinger and Sans hisses out a breath. Conversationally, Red says, “So I’m trying to remember where we left off. Something like this, right?”

“Your hand was on my throat.” It just slips out. When Red stares down at him hard, Sans really regrets that he can’t properly shrug it off. “Just saying. For accuracy.” 

Another long moment as Red studies his face. He was giving Sans an out, probably thinking about Unundyne trying to choke him to death. But Red put his hands on Sans’s throat first, burning it into his brain as a sex thing, and Red’s not going to try to kill him. Red is… not safe, but he’s familiar.

Thoughtful of him, though. Too bad Sans doesn’t come to Red for thoughtfulness.

Red moves his hand from Sans’s shoulder to his spine, his fingers curling loosely around his throat in an echo of the collar. There’s something uncomfortably tender in the way he strokes his thumb down Sans’s throat.

“We wouldn’t wanna be inaccurate,” Red says. The tips of his fingers slip inside Sans’s pubic crest and Sans has a sudden, vivid flashback to that first time, his body responding without pride or control. At least he manages to hold it back this time, even as Red skims his fingers through his diffuse magic. “How about you make me something pretty to fuck?”

Reacting when Red called his soul pretty was a terrible mistake. Sans gives him a deadpan look. “Then move your hand.”

“Didn’t stop you last time,” Red says, but he draws his hand back. 

There's a crackle of magic, the faint taste of ozone. Then something (several somethings) moves where their bodies are pressed together, shifting and restless. The nest of tentacles at Red's pelvis are longer this time. Thicker. There are more of them. One of them immediately wraps around Sans’s wrist. He’s very aware of the ones squirming their idle, directionless way between his femurs.

"Impressive," Sans says, and regrets it when Red preens. Red really doesn't need the ego boost. "It’s gonna be kind of a boner-killer when you black out from exhaustion halfway through.”

“You and me got plenty of magic to burn,” Red says. “I think the term’s ‘glass cannon’.”

Sans gives in to curiosity and reaches out to touch one of the smaller tentacles. It winds around his fingers, slick and dexterous. Very dexterous. Hoo boy. He glances at Red's face as he rubs it with a thumb. "Can you feel that?"

"Yeah," Red says, his voice a little throaty. "It’s spread out but I can feel all of it. I’m getting off on this plenty. Don’t you worry."

Worry is a strong word, but at least Red isn’t just going to fuck him up without getting something out of it. Well, aside from kinky bullshit and something to be supremely smug about, like Red needs an excuse.

The tentacles slides away from his fingers. Another takes him by the wrist and pushes it down beside his head. His other wrist follows. Sans tries to tug free out of curiosity more than anything and it gently holds him with a leashed strength that sends heat straight to the base of his pelvis. He’s not getting his arms loose. He’s as good as cuffed, held by his wrists and Red’s hand around his throat.

“You could’ve just told me to keep my hands still,” Sans says, trying to sound annoyed and failing massively.

“Figured I’d help you out since this is your first time and all,” Red says, watching Sans through half-lidded, satisfied eyes. “You wanna be good for me, don't you?"

Fuck. At some point, Sans let Red figure out exactly how to push his buttons. He grins his best lazy grin up at Red. "Meh. Better make it worth my while."

Red leans down and kisses him, just a chaste press of teeth, and pulls back. His grin is all _challenge accepted_ , like somebody with an ace up his sleeve. Several aces. Some from a different pack. A gratuitous amount of aces. “Guess we’ll see.”

One of the tentacles squirms up his body until beside Sans’s face. It’s thick and shiny with wetness that reminds him of precome, brushing against the corner of his mouth. It isn’t hard to tell what Red wants from him. Sans turns his head and gives it a deliberate lick, listening to the subtle way Red’s breathing changes and his eyelights burn brighter.

“Open your mouth,” Red says. Sans does (he was going to anyway; Red didn’t need to tell him, the bossy asshole) and the tentacle slips past his teeth, rubbing over the flat of his tongue. The way it squirms, exploring the inside of his mouth, is weird, but it tastes like Red, strangely comforting in its familiarity.

It probably says something unfortunate about Sans that fucking his mouth is a surefire way to get him to relax. With Red above him, he’s getting a real good look at how much Red is enjoying it. Red’s playing him like a rube, but that’s what Sans gets for making it this easy to do it.

The tentacle is doing most of the work, rocking shallowly into his mouth, but Sans does what he can, rubbing the underside with his tongue, tilting his head to give Red a better angle, humming just to feel Red twitch against him.

Another one of the tentacles, thicker than the one fucking his mouth, starts to move from where it’s been aimlessly squirming against his hip. It slides between his open legs, rubbing against the opening to his pubic arch, not penetrating but giving him friction against the bone. Sans goes still, his breath hitching, but the slow fucking of his mouth doesn’t stop. The amount of skill and concentration it must be taking Red to do this, like the sex equivalent of rubbing your stomach and patting your head at once... goddamn, Red’s a dangerous bastard. The aimless warmth in the cradle of his pelvis is suddenly much less aimless.

Red puts a hand on Sans’s chest, his expression mock-comforting. “They’ve kinda got a mind of their own. Intent, y’know? And I intend to show you a real good time.”

Sans’s mouth is full, which kind of limits his options for being “sassy”, whatever the fuck that means. So he rolls his eyes and gives Red the finger with both hands. _There you go, asshole. Don’t expect me to make it easy for you._

Red grins like Sans is a clever bit of research methodology. Then he tightens his grip on Sans’s throat just a little as the tentacle frots against him. Sans makes a quiet noise, thankfully muffled by his mouthful of magic. 

“C’mon,” Red coaxes, watching his face. That’s a problem, that Red has positioned himself to see every little microexpression. There’s nothing to hide behind. “Give me what I want.”

A few more thrusts, the head of the tentacle in Sans’s mouth flirting with the back of his throat, and Sans shudders as his magic forms. It’s not a conscious decision to make a cunt because he’s not Red, who can do apparently damn near anything with his junk. His body just knows what it wants. What it’s been wanting.

Red purrs his satisfaction. The thickest tentacle continues to rub along his slit, smearing its wetness everywhere, slow and steady friction against his clit. It feels bigger like this, now that it’s up close and personal with where it’s supposed to fit, bigger than anything he’s taken, and Sans feels something like nerves and something like want wash over him in a confusing wave.

“Yeah,” Red says roughly, reading his expression. “You’re already so wet, sweetheart. Trust me. You can take it.”

That sounds like the voice of experience. Sans can take it because Red can. Because Red takes something like this all the time?

It’s a wild, irrational thought, half paranoia and half guilty fantasy: Red made this for him. What if Red is fucking him with something shaped like Edge’s--

The broad head of the tentacle catches at the entrance to his cunt, opening him up, and Sans twists the blanket in his fists as he suddenly, humiliatingly comes just like that. It’s furtive and unsatisfying, rippling through him and leaving him more tense than when he started.

At least it throws Red off his game. The tentacles pause for a second. Red’s grins blossoms bright and sharp. Sans regrets every single one of his decisions ever. “A little riled up there, huh? Been looking forward to this? You’re all full of surprises.”

Ha. Yeah, well, it surprises him too. He’s gonna have to look Edge in the face at some point and try to pretend that he hasn’t come thinking of Edge’s dick inside him twice now. His mind is apparently goddamn filthy, although he wouldn’t put it past Red to do something like that to entertain himself. Hell, it could even be an unconscious decision, Red basing the shape on a dick he knows as intimately as his own.

Or Sans could just have unfortunate kinks. That’s an option too.

Red doesn’t like to be ignored. He starts up again, yanking Sans out of his thoughts. The tentacles seem even slicker now, easing their glide over Sans’s overheated body, a handy substitute for lube. Sans’s mouth is flooded with the taste of Red’s magic.

Then the tentacle rubbing slow and teasing against his cunt changes angles, pressing against him with purpose, pressing _in_. Sans draws in a sharp breath as the broad head of it sinks in slow. It barely even burns. Yay for tentacle lube, apparently.

Red pulls out of his mouth, probably afraid Sans is going to choke or bite down. Or maybe he wants to hear the noise Sans makes when the tentacle undulates inside him in an overwhelming wave.

“Just figured it was a good time to check in,” Red says. There’s an evil light in his eyes. “Any constructive criticism for me? You wanna call me a dick?”

“I’m fine. How’s the weather up--” Sans starts, and then the tentacle curves hard into his g-spot. His body throbs all over, a rush of heat. He laughs shakily. “Fuck.”

“You’re fucked, all right,” Red agrees, pressing a little deeper into him. “How’s it feel?”

Of course Red does this to him and expects him to _talk_. Sans tries to make himself focus on anything other than the tentacle painstakingly opening him up. He’s got to have a smartass remark. He always has a smartass remark, even when he really shouldn’t. Red can’t fuck that out of him. “Like I’m gonna get kicked out of the aquarium.”

If anything, Red looks even more pleased. He shrugs and starts to pull out. “Hey, if you’re not digging it--”

“Wait,” Sans says, involuntary as the twitch of his hips as he tries to keep the tentacle in. Red pauses, smirking, and Sans seriously considers biting the next thing Red puts in his mouth. He swallows his pride. It goes down surprisingly easily. “I didn’t say stop.”

“Okay,” Red says agreeably. 

The tentacle slides back in in one hard, slick push. Sans goes _nngh_ low in his throat like he was stabbed. He can feel it moving inside of him, alien and satisfying. It’s got a mind of its own, all right, and it’s figured it where to press. It’s not enough to bring him off by itself but--

“It’s good,” Sans says, his voice tight. He can give Red that much. Kinda hard to miss the fact that he’s already come once and is building towards another one. He grasps the blanket in his fingers again. “I’m…”

Red brings his fingers to Sans’s clit, rubbing, and Sans’s body latches onto the familiar pleasure like a lifeline. He shudders hard, his head snapping back against the mattress.

“I’m not done with you yet, sweetheart,” Red murmurs. “I’m just gonna keep going until you tap out or I’m satisfied. Understand?”

Hopefully the strangled noise Sans makes when he comes counts as an answer, because otherwise he’s got nothing. There are bright spots in his eyes and his body seems to be thrumming at a low frequency like a struck bell.

“Good,” Red says, his grin feral. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

Red takes his fingers off Sans’s clit, but the tentacle never stops squirming. It’s right on the edge between uncomfortable and good, which is appropriate because Sans is uncomfortable with how good this is. He swallows against his dry throat and manages words. “Red?”

Suddenly attentive, Red stops on a dime. “Yeah, babe.”

Sans says with as much calm as he can scrape up, “When it’s my turn, I’m gonna get you back for this.”

“Sounds like a good time.” Red presses his thumb into Sans’s throat, just a little pressure making it harder to get in a full breath. A reminder of who’s in charge here. Sans’s cunt twitches. “Not everybody has your hangups.”

“‘Til you cry,” Sans says, holding his eyes. “Or scream. Whatever. I--” 

The tentacle moves inside him, _thrusts_ hard and fast inside him, lighting up every single nerve at once. Then it does it again and again, fucking him with brutal precision like a machine. Sans realizes dizzily why there’s a tentacle wrapped around his spine; it’s holding him in place for each thrust, keeping him where Red wants him. He scrabbles at the blanket, clenching his teeth because like fuck is he giving Red the satisfaction of making noise.

“What was that?” Red asks sweetly, a little strain in his voice. “I didn’t hear you.”

Fuck, it’s so much, pounding into him, screwing the thoughts out of his head. The tentacle is so wet that despite its size, there’s no pain, just sweet intensity. Sans digs his heels into the bed, his spine in an arch that’s almost painful, his eyes squeezed shut. His body tightens every time Red pushes into him like it’s trying to keep him, little flares of sharp pleasure sparking. His head swims and he realizes he’s not breathing. He gasps in air, a wet noise, and loses it in a short, humiliating whine.

He shouldn’t be this close again this fast just from a little rough handling, but the pleasure that’s been smoldering just under the surface since his last orgasm wells up. Red drags it out of him thrust by thrust, claiming it as his right. 

Sans realizes to his horror that he’s going to come from this without a single touch to his clit, Red watching his every reaction with hungry eyes, about two seconds before it happens. It jerks through him like an electric shock, his body seizing as the killing tension snaps like a rubber band, wrenching him hard into Red’s restraining hand on his throat.

“Fuck!” Sans says, the word yanked out of him. It’s loud, although not as loud as Red is half the time, his control slipping as the pleasure washes through him and leaves him weak. When Red slows but doesn’t stop, edging past fucking him through it into overstimulation, Sans struggles in the grip of the tentacles. “Wait, wait--”

It’s not _stop_. It’s not even close.

But Red comes to a stop. Sans groans, his head falling back against the bed, and tries to remember how to breathe. His cunt is throbbing with heat and the echoes of getting thoroughly fucked, still clenching a little as he winds down. He’s shaking, wet with sweat and fluid from the tentacles, and Red isn’t letting him up. Red isn’t done with him, no mercy in his patient expression.

“Fuck,” Sans says again, shakily. There’s no end of things he ought to call Red, starting alphabetically with ‘asshole’, but his thoughts are sweet and spider-web thin as cotton candy: get him a little wet and they melt.

“You’re doing real good, honey,” Red says, his voice rough and hot. It drags another exhausted shiver out of Sans.

Giving Sans’s throat a last gentle squeeze, Red takes his hand away. He shifts his weight on Sans’s femurs, reaching under the nest of tentacles, and traces with a fingertip where Sans is stretched open around him, feeling him out, taking his time. Sans breathes unsteadily, watching Red watch him, and sees Red hesitate before he slowly follows Sans’s magic back behind his cunt and rubs his finger there.

There’s no order. No demand. Just Red looking down at him, a silent question. _What’ll you give me?_ And Sans...

Well. It turns out right now Sans’ll give him pretty much anything he wants. He’ll lay out all his self control and hand Red the gasoline and a book of matches. He’s making good on this goddamn blank check if it kills him.

(He wants this. Fuck, he wants this.)

It’s awkward. He doesn’t have Red’s control and he’s only made an asshole once before on his lonesome out of idle curiosity, before he decided it was too much trouble to bother with lube. Hell of a time to learn when he’s halfway fucked out of his mind. But he tries, and damned if it’s not easier to focus his intent with Red’s fingers there.

It’s sensitive, untouched by anybody else’s hands. There’s enough slick from his cunt and the tentacles that Red’s finger glides easily over it. Sans makes a vulnerable little noise he doesn’t recognize. The expression on Red’s face makes Sans automatically try to sling an arm over his eyes so Red stops _looking_ at him like that, but he doesn’t get anywhere.

Red presses a fingertip into him. It goes surprisingly easy. Sans is too fuck-drunk to put up much resistance. It’s so much. He shudders when Red rocks his finger in and out a little, experimentally. It’s different than fingering himself, twisted into an awkward position until his wrist cramped. Red’s really good with his hands.

“You good?” Red asks, oddly gentle. Sans wonders what the hell kind of expression is on his own face. “You with me?”

Is he? He doesn’t want it to stop. His voice is hoarse. “Yeah.”

“Good.” A second fingertip rests at the entrance to his ass. Red asks, “More?”

“I’m.” Fuck, it’s hard to think. Sans tilts his hips into Red’s hand, full of him, and the intensity of it shakes him. His breath sighs out. “God. Yeah.”

“Look at you,” Red says, almost to himself. He eases his second finger in and Sans nearly sobs, choking it back at the last second. “You gonna take this for me, sweetheart?”

It’s such stupid dirty talk, but it’s like an arrow precisely aimed at the center of his animal brain, a killing blow. Very quietly, he says, “Please.”

Tactical begging. Red makes a rough little noise like Sans hit him. Then the tentacle inside him shifts, rocking back and forth. It’s barely any motion, but it doesn’t need to be, as full as he is, as directly as it’s curved into his g-spot. The pressure is ruthless, making him twitch.

This can’t be doing much for Red, just that little bit of friction, but his expression is rapt. He looks like he’s close, sweat running down his bones, his soul glowing brighter like a miniature sun building towards a supernova. His thighs are shaking a little where he’s straddling Sans, absently grinding on him.

Sans’s breathing is loud, each one just on the edge of a moan. He can’t be quiet. He’s fucked up. Red is fucking him up. He’s going to rip the blanket in his fists if he doesn’t just stroke out first. Desperately, he says, “Lemme suck you off.”

Red looks at him like he’s something important, a bit of shiny that stupid people discarded, or maybe it’s just the sweat in Sans’s eyes. The tentacle curled up by Sans’s jaw slides closer, but before Sans can open his mouth, Red says in a voice like raw silk, “Just lick it.”

Sans shudders all the way down his spine. He closes his eyes and licks at the tentacle. It’s almost as wet as a cunt now, making a mess of his face. It does nothing to block out the noises he’s making or to distract him from the merciless grinding on his g-spot. It’s so much pure sensory input, driving him towards the event horizon. He’s trembling.

“One more time,” Red says. Demands. His fingers thrust in slow counterpoint to the motion of the tentacle, one more layer of muchness. Sans can’t take it, but he _is_ taking it, a paradox. “I gotcha.”

Red reaches for his clit but doesn’t get as far as making contact. One last heavy drag of Red inside him and his mind just goes up like flashpaper, bright and empty. Red feels so much bigger as his body tightens down. He cries out, a helpless noise.

“Yeah,” Red says, all satisfaction. The tentacle rubs against his cheek, and Sans dizzily turns his head and takes it in his mouth. It’s sloppy work since he’s still panting, but Red groans from the bottom of his soul. The tentacle takes over, fucking his mouth as Red says, “That’s what I wanted, sweetheart, you did good, just let me--”

Red pulls out and comes on his throat in a hot rush. It turns out that tentacles come a _lot_. It fills Sans even more than he already is, sending him through a shuddering little aftershock just as he was winding down. He groans something that would probably be a curse if he remembered what words were for.

They stay there for a moment, trying to breathe. Sans is a-okay with staying there forever if it means he doesn’t have to move. Moving is for suckers. Let Red move. His tentacles, his problem.

Eventually, Red does, shifting on top of Sans with a grunt. He sounds exhausted. “Fuck me.”

Sans growls a less than coherent warning and turns his face away from the tentacle in case Red gets any ideas. Which doesn’t mean it’s any less jarring when there is suddenly nothing inside him but Red’s fingers, no tentacles draped over his chest and around his wrist. He has a panicked half-second where even with Red on top of him and inside of him, he feels alone.

Red slides his fingers free, making Sans grimace. His magic aches a little even with the endorphins, and the empty feeling is worse. When Red climbs off, Sans realizes with unpleasant clarity that he’s shivering with overstimulation and exertion and he’s wet and fuck, what if Red thinks he’s weak now, he was so fucking needy and--

“C’mere,” Red says, and pulls Sans over into his arms. It takes Sans a second to remember that he can move his hands, that he can hold on tight. He does so. It seems like a good plan. Nuzzling him, Red lets out the sigh of a tired man who’s extremely satisfied with his work. “Goddamn, you’re gonna spoil me.”

There’s no judgement or condescension in his voice. Reassured, Sans relaxes, pressing his forehead against Red’s shoulder. It takes him a good thirty seconds to get his head together enough to rasp, “Don’t get used to it.”

Red laughs. “We are the same guy, huh?”

“Dunno what you’re talking about.”

“Just something I said to the boss once. Don’t worry about it.” Red’s hand rests on the back of his neck, solid and comforting, pulling Sans closer against him. “You were awesome. Fuck, you took everything I threw at you and then some.”

“Sex is over,” Sans says. “You don’t have to keep hammering on the praise button.”

“I’m allowed to say thank you, asshole.”

“I didn’t authorize that.” The shakes are gradually easing up as Red holds him. For a guy without much practice, Red is really good at this whole hugging thing. Must run in the family. Sans smothers a yawn against Red’s chest. “‘M gonna need a form in triplicate.”

“Don’t got a form. You want a shower instead?”

“Ugh.” As much as getting up is the thing Sans least wants to do in the world, the jizz is already starting to cool unpleasantly, and the ease of not laying in the wet spot is complicated by most of the bed being a wet spot. Most of _him_ is a wet spot. He’s gonna drip all the way to the bathroom, because like fuck is he letting Red risk a teleport with him just to spare a short walk and some carpet cleaner. “I’m amazed you’ve still got magic to hold you together.”

“Eh, a nap and a sandwich and I’ll be copacetic.” Red gives him another nuzzle. “Turns out your bro and mine are gonna go to a class tonight at some leather shop downtown. We got the place to ourselves until 10.”

Sans’s brain does its usual ‘glad Papyrus is happy’ and ‘really don’t wanna think about kink being what makes Papyrus happy’ misfire. “Really. He didn’t mention it this morning.”

“I just happened to see it online before you came over.”

“That’s serendipitous.”

“Ain’t it just,” Red says, like someone who definitely arranged this whole situation to his own liking. “Don’t suppose you want a shortcut?”

“Don’t suppose I do.” Sans pushes himself upright, hissing softly as his magic protests. It’s a relief when he lets it dissipate and it’s just his spine and pelvis bitching mildly about how he’s not in his early twenties anymore.

Red climbs off the mattress with a little grunt. Good to know Sans isn’t the only one who’s feeling it. He holds out a hand and Sans grudgingly takes it, legs wobbling under him when he’s upright. Pleased with himself, Red says, “You look like that elevator from the Shining.”

Sans rubs a hand over his throat and then tries to smear it across Red’s face. Red dodges, laughing, but lets Sans leave a messy handprint on his ribs. They are two mature adults who should definitely be left unsupervised to have kinky sex.

They make it to the shower, although the carpet in Red’s bedroom may never be the same. Once they’re in the tub, hot water pounding down (because their water pressure is fucking _amazing_ ), Red gently pushes him against the wall.

“Dude,” Sans starts tiredly.

“Relax.” Red grabs a washcloth, soaps it up and starts washing Sans’s ribs. It’s weird. Kinda nice, though. It means Sans doesn’t have to move much, just stand there and stare at Red’s face, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. Red meets his eyes for a second and grins. “It’s a full-service tentacle fuck.”

“I can do that myself.”

“Yeah, I know.” Red leans in and kisses him, brief and warm. “Lemme do it anyway.”

He should probably put up a fight, but fuck it. If Red’s the one who came everywhere, it kind of follows that Red be the one to clean it up. It’s easier just to close his eyes and let Red do what he wants.

(Never mind that this is perilously close to aftercare, or that the soap Red’s using is the one Sans keeps smelling on Edge, or that when Red reaches his pelvis where it’s not painful but excruciatingly tender, his hands are more patient than Sans thought Red could be. Red ends up bringing him off one last time like that, with the gentle friction of the washcloth on his coccyx, Sans clutching his wrist in a death grip as his voice cracks and echoes off the tiles.)

Finally, Red decides they’re both clean enough. The hot water starting to run out has a lot to do with it. In short order, Sans finds himself on the couch, dressed in a spare set of Red’s clothes (why get back into dirty ones that smelled like dishwater?), complete with Led Zeppelin t-shirt because of course Red is into cock rock. Of course he is. Red has his head on Sans’s shoulder, Sans’s arm around him. In what was probably supposed to be some great compromise, Red gave him the remote, but they both know they’re going to end up watching something on the Science channel or PBS. Sans can only spite-watch My Little Pony for so long.

Red isn’t purring, but he’s breathing like he’s either revving up to it or about to start snoring. It took a lot out of him, the whole tentacle thing. Sans should probably bail before shit gets even more domestic, but Red seems weirdly vulnerable in his tiredness. What the hell kind of fuckbuddy would Sans be if he left Red to crash alone in a house that’ll be empty all night?

(A smart one, probably. But also one who’d have to sit on a hard bus seat riding over potholes right after being vigorously tentacle-fucked. Besides, he’s pretty goddamn worn out himself. Five orgasms in one round will do that to a guy.)

“So you gonna explain why you freaked out this time?” Red asks sleepily.

Sans should’ve known better than to expect Red to drop it that easily. “There’s this thing called vacations. You oughta try it sometime.”

“Ha. Good luck with that. You’ve met my brother, right?”

“Nope. Never heard of him. I thought you were an only child.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t that make my life simpler,” Red grumbles, but Sans hears the affection in it. “I’m beat. You sure you don’t wanna skip the bullshit and just tell me?”

“Since when have either of us ever wanted to skip the bullshit?” Sans asks.

“Fine. Dick.” 

With a groan, Red sits up, snags something off the floor by Sans’s jacket, and holds it up. It’s the collar, incongruously small and unremarkable in his hand. Sans goes cold, struggling with the instinctive urge to snatch it back.

“Fell out of your jacket pocket,” Red says. “Judging by the look on your face, I guess you didn’t just forget to shove it in a drawer somewhere, huh?”

Red tells Edge everything. That’s been the deal from the start. They don’t keep secrets from each other, a fact that’s kept them alive and mostly intact. That’s not going to change. Which doesn’t stop Sans from saying, “Don’t tell him.”

Red shrugs. “Okay.”

Like it’s that easy.

Warily, Sans says, “Why?”

“Like I said, watching you idiots try to figure your shit out is hilarious,” Red says. “Besides, you don’t react great when you’re cornered. Fuck knows where you’d bolt to this time. Figured I’d save you the running.”

It’s not a lie, although it may not be the whole truth either. Sans relaxes a little. “Thanks.”

“Whatever.” Red turns the collar over in his hands, examining it with a critical eye. “Gotta give the boss, he’s damned good at what he does. Makes you feel safe, right?”

If anybody would understand, it’d be Red. Sans shrugs, rubbing his palms over his knees to keep from trying to take the collar back. “I guess. Helps me sleep.”

Red makes a vague acknowledging noise. He rubs the collar between his fingers, then looks at Sans. “Works better if you put it on.”

“Maybe so,” Sans says. “What’s with the twenty questions? You gonna be done fondling it anytime soon?”

“Hold your horses.” Red holds out his hand. “Gimme your wrist.”

If it’ll get to the end of this bullshit faster, Sans’ll give him damn near anything. He gives Red his wrist, and Red proceeds to loop the collar twice around it like a cuff. If Sans had meat on his bones or the leather was a little thicker or stiffer, it wouldn’t fit. But it does, the leather pressing against him, bringing that sense of ease and safety. He relaxes fractionally, and judging from the lingering glance Red gives him, he notices.

“Nobody said it had to go around your neck,” Red says. “I mean, if you were back in our universe, it’d have to be visible to do any good, but this’ll work here.”

“Seems like a good way to ruin the leather.”

“Nah, it’s pretty thin. Oil it once in a while and it should be okay.” Red considers him. “You want me to fasten it?”

Well, there’s the question. It certainly solves the problem of dropping it in his sleep. If he shoves the collar in his inventory before he takes his jacket off, no one will know. Except Red, of course. And himself.

Being a twitchy mess all the time is burning a lot of his already limited energy. If he gets decent sleep without nightmares and is a little more relaxed, he might be able to go back to work. With the collar pressed against him, he feels almost normal again.

It’s tempting fate. It’s sure not helping de-escalate the Edge situation. But Sans says, “Yeah, okay.”

Red’s eyelights seem to burn brighter. He fastens the buckle with the ease of familiarity and like that, it’s done. Sans is wearing the collar of his own free will, no looming disaster forcing his hand. He doesn’t feel any different. More grounded, maybe, but still the same person he’s always been. Just with an edgy douchebag accessory.

Bringing Sans’s wrist to his mouth, Red nuzzles the collar, feral satisfaction burning in his eyes. Sans braces himself for Red to say something filthy and ridiculous, but Red only snuggles back against Sans’s side. He keeps hold of Sans’s wrist, rubbing his finger over the leather.

Edge’s soap, Red’s clothes, the collar, the bruise on his collarbone… it’s amazing Red hasn’t pissed on him to mark his territory.

And what does it say that Sans keeps letting him do it?

“Better?” Red asks, his eyes on the television even though Sans is staring at him.

Yes, actually, but Sans isn’t going to admit it. He shrugs.

“Suits you.” Red lays his head back on Sans’s shoulder and squirms until he’s made himself comfortable. “Hey, if you were gonna bang one of 'em, which one would it be?”

Sans thinks about shoving him off the couch. Too much effort. He sighs instead. “Incest, tentacles, clones and cartoon horses. I’m so glad I can fit into one of your weird niche sexual fetishes.”

“Me too, babe,” Red says agreeably. “Me too.”


	2. bonus: red pov

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> detailed content warnings in the endnotes

All the time Red's been banging Edge, he's been going on and on and fucking on about the importance of aftercare. Some of it actually managed to penetrate Red's thick skull, not that he’d admit it to the boss. He's been trying it with Sans since the beginning because cuddling without guilt is fucking awesome. Sans doesn't fight him on it much these days. Progress.

Besides, they both goddamn well earned it this time.

Red's got Sans propped against the shower wall. He's not sure Sans would stay upright otherwise. He's worn right out, slack-limbed, his eyes heavy-lidded. Maybe Red pushed him too hard. Hell, maybe he pushed _himself_ too hard. Worth it, though.

(It's worth it for that moment that Sans, the prickly bastard who makes Red work for every little fucking thing, made another hole for Red to fuck just because Red wanted him to.)

(It's worth it for that moment Red realized he was the first one to do this to him, the surprised flare of pleasure and need in Sans's eyes, that split second where his eyelights guttered out and then flashed into hearts.)

Sans is mostly clean now. Shame. Red kind of liked seeing him painted in crimson like the dangerous thing that he is. But then Red's pretty feral himself. Territorial.

(The bruise on Sans's collarbone is fading. He thinks Sans'll let him do it again. Sans probably would've let him do damn near anything without a fuss about fifteen minutes ago, but hell, maybe Edge's weird sense of fairplay is rubbing off on Red. He _likes_ that Sans isn’t easy.)

The one place that's still a mess is San's pelvis. That caught the majority of the splatter, streaks of red running down to circle the drain. Red nudges Sans’s legs further apart. There's a moment where he can see Sans think about objecting, and Red says, "Full service, remember?"

Sans makes a disgruntled noise. Good. Getting some fight back. Not that Red didn't enjoy the hell out of Sans giving him everything he wanted, but it'd be boring full time. "This weird gas station fantasy of yours is getting a little out of hand."

Red grins and leans in to kiss him long and slow. Sans immediately melts into it, one hand curling around the back of Red's neck. One of the nice things about Sans is that he appreciates some good making out. Red doesn't miss the way that Sans fingers his collar. Used to be that he tried not to touch it, but now it draws his hand like a magnet.

Against his mouth, Red drawls, "Well, hey, city slicker. We don't see many fancy folk like you 'round here--"

"Am I the car here or the driver getting sexually harassed?"

"You're the haughty businessman who's gonna get deflowered over the hood of an expensive car. Keep up, Sansy. Or did I literally fuck your brains out?"

“That’s adorable. No.” Sans slips a thumb under the collar, an echo of all the times Edge has done the same thing. It sends a pleasant shiver down Red’s back. “If you're gonna wash and wax, at least do it before the hot water runs out."

"Sir yes sir," Red says, pulling back just in time to see Sans's expression flicker with brief, sharp interest. Heh. Red'll remember that for later.

Drawing back so he can see what he's doing, Red brings the washcloth to the inside of Sans's pelvis. He does it carefully, rubbing experimentally at a smear of jizz that's not too close to anything that would've taken a lot of friction. Sans tenses against him, and Red stops. "Hurts?"

Sans shakes his head, but Sans is as bad about pretending he’s bulletproof as Edge in his own weird way. Red goes even more gently. The jizz slowly washes away, revealing pale bone that's still flushed blue. When Red gets down near the pubic arch, Sans's breath hisses out in a way that doesn't sound like pain.

Red slows, glancing at Sans's face. Sans's eyes are closed and he's breathing deliberately, but his face is a book Red knows cover to cover.

"Sensitive?" Red asks.

The look Sans gives him could evaporate all the snow in Snowdin and leave it a scorched desert wasteland. But he doesn't push Red away or try to close his legs. His face burns hot.

Red's pretty tapped out for the night. If Edge comes home wanting attention, he's gonna have to settle for a tired one-way blowjob. Sans is in a similar situation; there's no tingle of magic at all, but when Red runs a bare finger over Sans's sacrum, it's hot to the touch.

Good thing Red lives to push his luck.

He kisses Sans again, a brush of teeth against teeth. "Just say the word and I’ll stop."

There's a good ten seconds of silence before Sans says, a traitorous hint of reluctant interest in his voice, "If you're trying to kill me, there are easier ways to do it than fucking me to death."

"Nah. Ain't gonna kill you. You're too good of a lay," Red says. "Call it, sweetheart."

Sans lays his head back against the wall. He's probably not deliberately baring throat, but Red's soul gives a predatory throb. "Fine. Asshole."

"It was a pretty fine asshole," Red agrees. He brings the washcloth to Sans's sacrum foramen, rubbing each hole with unnecessarily meticulous care. Jizz might have ended up in there. You never know. Sans’s legs tremble. "Thanks for letting me play with it. Anybody ever done that for you before?"

“Sorry for your kinks, but there was no deflowering involved,” Sans says, a little hitch in his voice. “All the flowers are already gone. The florist’s shop burned down and the season’s over. They’re too expensive anyway.”

“Liar,” Red says, grinning.

He’s close enough that he can hear the dry little click as Sans swallows, then says like it’s nothing and he didn’t just show his hand by evading, “Yeah, it was. Seemed like too much trouble before. Don’t get weird about it.”

Too late. Red already has plans. He's going to show Sans how good rimming can be. He's going to show him everything.

Ruthlessly, Red presses the button marked _Sans's desperate hunger to be praised even if he doesn't believe it_. "Doesn't matter. Either way, you let me do it. You paid off that check with interest, honey. You were so fucking good.”

Sans responds with a long shiver, his eyes half-closing, a subvocal noise caught in his throat. The words always seem to hit him somewhere deep, feeding a need he’s been starving for years. It makes Red want to track down some of the people Sans was fucking and do worse than slash some tires because would it have killed them to show a little goddamn appreciation for him getting them off? For fuck’s sake.

Then again, maybe not. The thought of anybody but him and Edge seeing Sans’s vulnerable underbelly like that makes him want to stab something.

"Cheapest manipulation I’ve ever heard," Sans mutters. “Zero points for you. No finesse.”

"I don't need finesse." Red moves away from the sacrum and starts working his careful way down Sans's coccyx. "I already got you right where I want you."

"About to fall over and concuss myself in the shower?" Sans asks tightly.

"I ain't gonna drop you," Red says. As he gets closer to the tip of the coccyx, Sans breathes even faster. "Relax."

"I know you're not going to fucking--" 

Red must be doing something right because Sans loses his words for a minute. With a pleased little hum, Red keeps it up.

"Oh," Sans breathes. His hand comes down to grasp Red's wrist, but when Red stops, Sans jerkily says, "No, just-- I dunno if this is going anywhere. Might not be able to get off again."

He sure looks like someone who's about to get off again. It’ll only take some patience. Red can be patient in some extremely rare circumstances, and it turns out this is one of them. "You don't have to. Just take a little more for me."

That was the right button to press. Sans's hips jerk into Red's hand, his grip tightening on Red's wrist. Red has to press him harder into the wall to keep him still. He doesn't speed up, using the soft friction of the washcloth to shameless advantage, his fingertips circling over the point of Sans's coccyx. Sans moans, all his cool stripped away, leaving him frantic and shaky as he struggles with the pleasure.

"Fuck, you're pretty like this," Red murmurs. "That’s right. I got you. You're--"

_Mine._

Red puts the brakes on his mouth just shy of going off a cliff. If Sans was even vaguely on his game, he'd notice, but he's too busy coming apart, his voice cracking in the middle of another moan, his grip probably leaving bruises around Red's wrist. He’d double over if Red didn’t have him pinned. Red greedily watches his face, the exhausted blackout pleasure there, the open-mouthed desperation. Sans can’t hide from him.

There's no room for romance in Red's soul. If he did manage to scrape some up, it belongs to Edge. One thing matters in this world (in as many worlds as there might be) and that's his brother. No other attachments. It's easier that way. He has friends, sort of, but no one he couldn't cut loose if he had to.

He could still cut himself loose from Sans. But it would bleed for a long time. There is a hot, sweet ache in his soul, looking at Sans like this. It's trouble.

He knew all along he wanted to keep Sans as something fun to play with, something to make his brother happy. And fuck knows both of those things are still true, but...

Yeah. But.

Fuck it. He's starting to sound like Sans with all this agonizing over feelings that aren't gonna up and go away. If he got over wanting to screw his own little brother, he can deal with this. And not by skipping town to hide like a dumbass, thank you very fucking much.

He lets his fingers slow to a stop, pressing his mouth to Sans's spine where the collar should be. It looked good on him, and it would look better now that he's not half-dead and shell-shocked. A declaration even better than a bruise on his collarbone or Red's hand around his throat.

(Red has killed people like that. Just shortcutted into their houses while they were sleeping and crushed their windpipe or snapped their neck before they could get a single attack off. Sans probably knows. It damn near happened to him less than two weeks ago. But he asked Red to wrap his fingers around his neck and hold him down, an offer that was also a dare. He trusted Red, fully knowing what he is. The only other person to do that is Edge.)

(But then Red always figured Sans was out of his fucking mind.)

 _Mine,_ Red thinks viciously where Sans can't hear him and freak out, trying to burn the words into the universe as a warning. _Fuck who you want. Go where you want. But we’re the ones you keep coming back to and you know it._

"Better?" Red asks when he feels Sans stir. "Or do you wanna go again? Don’t wanna leave you unsatisfied, y’know."

Sans groans with feeling. "I hate you so much."

"Aw, that’s just precious. I hate you too, kitten."

"Neither of us are 19 anymore.” Sans scrubs a hand over his face. “Fuck, I'm not sure I could've done that back then either.”

“Funny, I seem to remember you getting off just fine,” Red says.

Turns out Sans doesn’t have an argument for that. He pets Red’s wrist with his thumb, absent affection, and then lets him go. “Get your hand off my coccyx."

Red does. Carefully, he eases back half a step, ready to grab Sans in case he starts to go down. Sans stays on his feet, although his knees are wobbly like a newborn colt’s. He’s tougher than he looks. Really takes a licking and keeps on ticking.

Red starts, "You--"

Sans narrows his eyes. "If the next thing out of your mouth involves the word 'good', I'm going out the bathroom window."

"I was gonna ask if you wanted to get out of the shower. Hot water’s running out."

“Oh.” Sans squints resentfully at the showerhead. “Yeah, probably a good idea.”

“I have ‘em once in a while.” 

Red turns off the shower and steps out, grabbing a couple gratuitously fluffy towels off the rack. One of those little luxuries of the surface, drying off with something plushy that doesn’t reek of mildew and the dump. Expensive, high thread count towels and sheets were some of the first things Edge insisted on getting when they moved to their own place. Red didn’t even know thread count was a thing, but it’s officially spoiled him. He’s living his best hedonist life.

He offers a hand to help Sans out of the shower, which Sans pointedly ignores. Kind of what Red expected, but it’s handy to have a gauge of where Sans’s head is at. Verdict: still softer on the edges than usual but getting his feet back under him. Some cuddling on the couch, maybe some food, and he’ll be back to being a full-time pain in Red’s ass.

Red pushes the towel towards Sans’s chest. He’s not gonna try to towel Sans off because he might get bitten for it. Instead he stands closer than he needs to, drying off and breathing in the scent of Edge’s soap all over Sans. It’s a nice little tripwire for Edge to stumble over later, a reminder of what he could have if he pulled his head out of his ass.

“I got some clothes you can borrow,” Red says. When Sans gives him a look, he shrugs. “Hey, they’re clean.”

And if he made sure that they both dripped jizz on Sans’s stuff as he was herding Sans to the shower, well, that’s just forward thinking. Strategic and shit.

Two months ago, it probably would’ve taken some convincing. Sans’s hangups have hangups. But going to their universe beat some of the stupid out of him. Hell, it beat it out of them all. Hard to fuss about the small stuff when you get an up close and personal reminder that the universe is a cruel bitch that’ll take everything from you in a heartbeat. What are a couple commitment issues compared to that?

“Yeah, okay,” Sans says, conceding semi-gracefully. “Thanks. Try to minimize the grimdark douchiness.”

Just for that, Red’s gonna have to find something particularly obnoxious. He’s not the one in this family leaving the house dressed like he’s going to a leather daddy convention. Not that he’s complaining about those pants and the way they hug Edge’s pelvis, but if one of them deserves crap about their fashion choices, it’s not Red. He just wears all black to be practical. Makes it easier to hide blood stains.

Red tosses his towel aside, onto the sink. “I’ll try to meet your high standards, babe. Nothing that looks like it cost more than five dollars at Walmart. Lemme go fetch ‘em.”

“I can--” Sans starts, but nope, Red is already gone. He’s feeling generous so he actually walks. For all that Sans said Gaster is no threat to anyone but him, he’s a little twitchy now about Red taking shortcuts. But then Sans is twitchy about all things Gaster, it seems, like Gaster’s the boogeyman in his closet instead of just some asshole who used to be his boss. Red’s gonna have to get to the bottom of that. Not tonight, but soon.

As he passes the living room, he glances in and finds Doomfanger curled up on top of the jacket Sans tossed on the floor. Edge would smack Red upside the head for that, but Papyrus is a soft touch. Doomfanger has a paw stretched out and is swatting idly at something that must’ve fallen out of Sans’s pocket. Afternoon light flashes off the silver buckle of the collar. Red stops short like he just walked into a wall.

Well now. Isn’t that interesting. True, Sans shoved the collar in his pocket that night he got back from their universe, but he’s had plenty of time to remember it’s there and put it away where he didn’t have to think about it. He kept it with him. He kept it close.

Maybe Red won’t have to wait as long to see him in that collar as he thought.

_Ours._

He wouldn’t bother to hide his grin even if Sans could see it. He’s earned his smugness.

Red whistles through his teeth. As much as he hates to admit it, Edge has got the hellbeast pretty well trained. Doomfanger looks resentfully up at him, deprived of his new toy, and then deliberately yawns, stretches and ambles off like it was totally his idea and Red had nothing to do with it.

With a last, lingering glance at the collar, Red continues towards the bedroom. The rest of the evening is lined up in front of him like dominoes just waiting for a push. He’ll get Sans in some clothes and bundled up on the couch. Better to have him all comfy and tired and off guard before he starts asking questions. It makes things easier.

After all, he and Sans have a lot to talk about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: Red considering maiming some of Sans's ex-lovers for not treating him to Red's standards, Red being possessive, mention of Red murdering a few people in the past in Underfell. Those are things you think of during sex, right? Yeah. Red is a perfectly functional individual.


End file.
